Page 4 of Bratva Holiday

“Ow! Ow! Ow! Illayana! My hair!”

She had Lukyan in some sort of headlock, one arm wrapped around his neck while her other hand yanked and pulled at his long dark hair. Her usually soft and delicate features were scrunched up in a feral growl, all the while Lukyan twisted and screeched, trying to get out of her hold.

Lukyan rammed his elbow into her abdomen over and over and over again until Illayana couldn’t take it anymore and finally let him go. The two of them separated, stared each other down, made a move to attack one another once again⁠—

“Freeze.” I sighed.

They both listened as if on autopilot.

“To your rooms. Now. The both of you.”

They glared at each other.

“Are you going to make me repeat myself?” I said the words calmly, but if anything, that seemed to terrify my children more because they both immediately replied with, “No, Father,” and rushed off to do as I’d ordered.

They wouldn’t be Illayana and Lukyan, though, unless they got one more in. They were both headed in the same direction, Illayana going for the stairs and Lukyan going for the entrance into the next room that would lead him to his bedroom. As they went their separate ways, she rammed her closed fist into his stomach and shoved him, leaving him to fall to the ground as she bolted up the stairs.

Lukyan scrambled, cursing her out six ways to Sunday as he went to chase after her⁠—

“Stopppp,” I dragged out with a tired sigh. “You can get her back in the morning. Off to bed. Now.”

My son stomped his foot, exactly how he used to when he was ten years old and I wouldn’t let him have a gun after he almost blew his own head off, before he spun in an angry huff and marched away.

I sighed again, dropping my head into my hand and rubbing my temples. Despite the overwhelming headache my two youngest children often caused me, a smile tugged at my lips. The bond my children shared was one I’d always wanted with my own sibling—the kind of bond that couldn’t be broken. A bond where no matter what happened between us, we would always be there for each other, always have each other’s backs.

Dominik and I never had that. Our father had made it his mission to separate us, to pin us against each other. And in the end, he’d succeeded. Dominik died with hatred in his heart for me, and I for him.

Still, even now, after everything that had happened, I couldn’t help but feel at a loss for what could have been.

I rubbed the soft fabric of the stocking sitting in my lap between my fingers, losing myself in years and years of Christmas memories. Yekaterina’s face appeared in and amongst the memories, but instead of the overwhelming guilt and shame I used to feel at the image, I was now able to look back at her and them and appreciate the memories without the pain they used to come with.

I’d mourned her death for ten years. Had ten years worth of pain and suffering, and if I was being honest with myself, I was surprised I had even survived it.

I didn’t think I would ever be able to move on. To live with myself.

Then a ball of blazing red fire came bulldozing into my life and kickstarted my heart all over again. Healed my soul. I never thought it could happen, but it did, and every day, I was so fucking thankful for it.

I ran my fingers over the stitching of the name at the top of the stocking.

YEKATERINA.

This was Yekaterina’s stocking. It got hung up in its usual spot every year. Just because she wasn’t here physically didn’t mean she wasn’t with us in spirit, watching over us.

I took it upon myself to put it up each year. It was a pain I’d happily bear to save my children from enduring it. Every Christmas morning, they would wake up and see it pinned up with the rest of ours and not ask any questions. It would just be there, where it belonged.

This was Autumn’s first Christmas with us, and just when I didn’t think she could get any more amazing, she proved once again what a spectacular woman she truly was. Autumn didn’t hold any jealousy or anger toward Yekaterina. Didn’t try to make my children feel awkward or guilty when talking about her. She brought Yekaterina up, asking questions about what she was like, making it very clear they were more than okay to bring their mother up in her presence. There was no awkwardness. No animosity. Just genuine curiosity and admiration for the woman who had brought them into life.

Autumn understood the place Yekaterina held in our family and never once tried to replace her, instead creating her own spot within it—a spot she was more than welcome to.

Blowing out a breath, I got to my feet, moving over to the fireplace. For the first time in ten years, my hands didn’t shake as I pinned Yekaterina’s stocking up. Instead of drowning in a sea of sadness, instead of feeling that sharp, all-consuming agony, there was now gentle acceptance. A new capacity for joy. The ability to make new memories while still cherishing the ones I held with Yekaterina.

Always loved. Never forgotten.

CHAPTER THREE

Aleksandr Volkov

Iglanced at the clock on the bedside table as the hushed voices of Lukyan and Illayana passed my bedroom door. 2:13 a.m. Pretty much right on schedule. Those two idiots thought no one knew what they got up to every Christmas Eve, but in reality, we all knew. They’d been pulling that shit since they were kids.